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The bell over the door at Grounds for Divorce jingled at precisely 7:12 on a Tuesday morning, which was about the time Fort Stockton’s regular population stopped pretending it was going to accomplish anything productive before lunch.

The big round table in the middle of the café was already occupied.

Rex Hall had the morning edition of the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch spread open in front of him.

Hairless B29 was nursing coffee.

Chad was working on a plate of scrambled eggs.

Angus Hopper had arrived with enough grease under his fingernails to suggest he had rebuilt something before sunrise.

Pastor Peterson was quietly stirring cream into his coffee.

Trixie was reading over Rex’s shoulder.

Lucinda appeared with the coffee pot, fresh off the Bunn-O-Matic.

“What has everybody so fascinated this morning?” she asked.

Rex folded the paper halfway down.

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“Richard Rendon.”

Every head nodded.

Lucinda blinked.

“Richard died?”

“Last week,” said Chad.

“I know he died. Everybody knows he died. What has you all looking like somebody found Jimmy Hoffa underneath the Dairy Twin?”

Rex slid the newspaper across the table.

“Read the headline.”

Lucinda squinted.

AUTOPSY REVEALS REMARKABLE ANATOMICAL ANOMALY IN LONGTIME FORT STOCKTON RESIDENT

She read a few lines.

Then a few more.

Then she stopped.

Then she read them again.

Then she slowly lowered the paper.

“Three?”

The table erupted.

“Three,” confirmed Chad.

“Apparently three.”

“Entirely three.”

“Triple-decker.”

Pastor Peterson removed his glasses.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard the phrase ‘entirely three’ before.”

“It’s a developing field,” Chad said.

Lucinda sat down.

“Richard Rendon had three penises?”

Rex nodded.

“According to the autopsy.”

“At Fort Stockton Memorial Hospital and Animal Research Facility?”

“The very same.”

Lucinda stared into space.

“That explains it.”

Everybody turned toward her.

“What explains it?” asked Angus.

She shrugged.

“Just…Richard.”

Nobody could argue with that.

Rex adjusted his glasses and looked back down at the article.

“Before everybody starts acting like a bunch of seventh graders who just discovered the biology section of the encyclopedia, this is apparently a real medical condition.”

That slowed the table down considerably.

“You’re kidding,” said Angus.

“Nope. It’s called triphallia.”

“Which sounds exactly like what it is,” Chad observed.

“According to the article, it’s one of the rarest congenital conditions ever documented. Medical researchers think it happens very early during fetal development when a structure called the genital tubercle, which eventually develops into the external genitalia, somehow duplicates itself. Or in this case, apparently triples itself.”

The table grew quiet.

Rex continued reading.

“The article says Richard appeared completely normal from the outside. The autopsy found one visible penis and two smaller penile structures hidden internally. Three separate shafts. Three glanses. Three sets of erectile tissue. One extremely confusing blueprint.”

“Sounds like Ford engineering in the late sixties,” muttered Hairless.

Rex ignored him.

“Apparently he only had one urethra, and it took what the report called a ‘meandering course’ through one of the smaller structures before connecting to the visible one.”

“What exactly is a meandering course?” asked Chad.

“In medical terminology?” Rex said. “I think it means ‘good luck finding it.’”

A few chuckles circled the table.

“The researchers didn’t know whether he was aware of the condition during his lifetime. They didn’t have access to his medical records. But they noted it could have caused urinary problems, infections, fertility issues, or other complications.”

Pastor Peterson slowly shook his head.

“Imagine carrying around something that unusual for seventy-eight years and nobody knowing.”

“Richard spent seventy-eight years carrying around all sorts of unusual things nobody knew about,” said Trixie.

“That’s true,” Chad admitted. “The only difference is that most of his other surprises were parked in the driveway.”

That was about the point where the conversation left medical science behind and headed directly toward Richard’s Galaxie.

Richard Rendon had spent seventy-eight years being one of Fort Stockton’s most bewildering citizens.

Not dangerous.

Not mean.

Not crazy.

Just perpetually operating from a different owner’s manual than everyone else.

He had once purchased an entire pallet of canned peaches because he misunderstood a grocery store sale.

He had tried to start a pigeon-racing league.

He had built a solar-powered barbecue pit.

He had invested heavily in decorative concrete frogs.

And then there was the Galaxie.

Everybody remembered the Galaxie.

Hairless leaned back.

“That car should’ve been evidence.”

The others nodded.

Richard’s 1963 Ford Galaxie had begun life as the most ordinary thing imaginable.

Four doors.

Sandshell Beige.

223 cubic inch Mileage Maker Six.

Three-on-the-tree.

A car your grandfather bought because excitement was expensive or dangerous.

Then Richard got hold of it.

The transformation had taken nearly twenty years.

Nobody knew exactly when he began.

One day it was normal.

The next day it wasn’t.

Much like the autopsy report.

Rex folded the paper.

“The article says they didn’t even know about the condition until medical students started the dissection.”

“Imagine being that student,” Angus said.

“Imagine being the second student.”

“Imagine being the third student.”

Pastor Peterson sighed.

“Y’all are determined to get struck by lightning.”

Delgado emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray.

“What are we talking about?”

“Richard Rendon.”

“The guy with the Galaxie?”

“Yep.”

“What happened?”

Silence fell.

Nobody wanted to explain it.

Finally Chad pointed toward the newspaper.

“Medical discovery.”

Delgado looked suspicious.

“What kind of medical discovery?”

Rex considered his options.

“Additional equipment.”

Delgado frowned, thinking Rex was referring to the Galaxie.

“What does that mean?”

“It means go refill table six before this conversation gets more complicated.”

Delgado wisely retreated.

The moment he disappeared, Hairless snorted.

“The real mystery is how nobody ever figured it out.”

“Oh, people figured something out,” said Trixie.

“Richard always had confidence that exceeded available evidence.”

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Everybody laughed.

The Galaxie discussion resumed.

Because in Fort Stockton every conversation eventually became about cars.

Richard’s Galaxie had started with a humble six-cylinder.

By the end it contained enough horsepower to alter weather patterns.

The original engine disappeared sometime during the Clinton administration.

In its place arrived a monstrous FE stroker V8.

Four hundred forty-nine cubic inches.

Three two-barrel carburetors.

Aluminum intake.

Thunderbird valve covers.

MSD ignition.

Headers.

Dual exhaust.

Four-speed transmission.

Nine-inch rear end.

The kind of drivetrain normally reserved for people who had unresolved issues with gravity.

Chad shook his head.

“You’d look at that car sitting in the parking lot and think it was stock.”

“Exactly,” said Angus.

“That was Richard.”

The table nodded.

The car wore beige paint.

Steel wheels.

Hubcaps.

Bench seats.

It looked like a retired accountant.

Then he’d start it.

And every dog within three zip codes would file a noise complaint.

Hairless laughed.

“You know what always amazed me?”

“What?”

“The restraint.”

“Restraint?”

“He could’ve built a race car.”

“He practically did.”

“No,” Hairless said. “A race car announces itself. Richard built something that looked normal.”

Pastor Peterson pointed his spoon.

“That’s actually a pretty fair metaphor.”

“Exactly.”

Chad sat forward.

“The Galaxie was Richard.”

Everybody listened.

“It looked ordinary.”

“Yep.”

“Nothing unusual visible from the outside.”

“Correct.”

“But underneath…”

He paused dramatically.

“Nobody suspected what either of them were actually packing.”

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The table exploded.

Coffee nearly exited through several noses.

Lucinda had to grab the counter for support.

Even Pastor Peterson covered his face.

“Oh Lord,” he muttered.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You aren’t,” Angus admitted.

“That’s the problem.”

Hairless wiped tears from his eyes.

“The article ought to run a picture of the car next to the autopsy report.”

“Educational purposes.”

“Public awareness.”

“Historical preservation.”

The bell over the door jingled.

A customer entered.

Took one look at the table.

Decided to sit somewhere else.

Wise choice.

Lucinda poured more coffee.

“You know what’s really remarkable?”

“What?”

“Richard somehow turned a four-door sedan into a legend.”

“With a four-speed on the floor.”

“Don’t forget that.”

The four-speed fascinated everybody.

Because a four-door family sedan with a giant FE engine and a top-loader transmission represented exactly the kind of irrational decision-making Fort Stockton admired.

It wasn’t practical.

It wasn’t economical.

It wasn’t necessary.

Which made it perfect.

Angus smiled.

“I drove it once.”

The table leaned closer.

“You drove Richard’s Galaxie?”

“One block.”

“What happened?”

“I got scared.”

Everybody laughed.

“I’m serious.”

He pointed toward the parking lot.

“You know that sensation when something feels stronger than it has any right to be?”

Heads nodded.

“That car was that feeling.”

He took a drink.

“You’d ease out the clutch and think, okay, this is manageable.”

Another drink.

“Then you’d touch the throttle.”

Pause.

---

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“And suddenly every engineering decision Ford made in 1963 seemed merely advisory.”

The laughter started again.

Delgado returned.

“What are we talking about now?”

“The Galaxie.”

“Oh.”

Relief washed across his face.

Cars made sense.

The rest of the conversation clearly did not.

He set down a basket of toast.

“That thing was loud.”

“Very.”

“I remember hearing it leave town.”

“Everybody did.”

Delgado nodded.

Then frowned.

“Wait.”

He looked around the table.

“Why are y’all comparing the car to Richard?”

Silence.

Nobody moved.

Nobody volunteered.

Finally Lucinda smiled.

“Because both contained more components than originally advertised.”

Delgado blinked.

“Okay.”

He thought about that.

Then thought some more.

Then wisely returned to the kitchen.

Rex opened the newspaper again.

The article contained a summary of the medical report.

Hidden structures.

Rare condition.

One of only a handful ever documented.

A life spent carrying a secret nobody knew existed.

Pastor Peterson became thoughtful.

“You know, underneath all the jokes, that’s actually kind of fascinating.”

Heads nodded.

“It is.”

“A man lives seventy-eight years.”

“Never makes headlines.”

“Never seeks attention.”

“And after he’s gone, science learns something new.”

The table grew quiet.

Fort Stockton specialized in strange people.

But Richard had been one of theirs.

Hairless eventually broke the silence.

“Still.”

“What?”

“If he’d known…”

“Oh no.”

“He would’ve absolutely put it on a business card.”

The table roared again.

“Richard Rendon.”

“Owner.”

“Operator.”

“Overachiever.”

Lucinda laughed so hard she had to lean against the counter.

Then Chad pointed toward the article again.

“You know what gets me?”

“What?”

“The car.”

“Still the car?”

“Still the car.”

He shook his head.

“George Lucas couldn’t modify a Galaxie this much.”

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That got another round of laughter.

Lucinda immediately fired back.

“Much less create a character packing more meat than the butcher counter at the Piggly Wiggly.”

The table collapsed into chaos.

Coffee sloshed.

Pastor Peterson surrendered completely.

Even he was laughing now.

“That’s enough.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No chance.”

Hairless was wheezing.

“I can’t breathe.”

“Take smaller breaths.”

“I’ve got coffee in my sinuses.”

“Good. Maybe it’ll improve your attitude.”

The laughter finally settled.

The morning crowd continued filtering through.

Outside, Dickinson Boulevard was waking up.

Inside, Richard Rendon was receiving the sort of memorial Fort Stockton reserved for its most memorable citizens.

Nobody discussed accomplishments.

Nobody listed awards.

Nobody recited dates.

Instead they remembered the things that mattered.

The absurd projects.

The impossible car.

The weird confidence.

The stories.

The fact that Richard had somehow spent a lifetime being exactly himself.  He accomplished more, both automotively and anatomically, than Mayor Goodman ever will civically or politically.  Granted, Mayor Goodman has spent years setting that bar lower than a limbo contest at the Lucky Lady Lounge.

Rex folded the newspaper one final time.

“You know what?”

“What?” asked Angus.

“I’m glad it was Richard.”

The others nodded.

Because if Fort Stockton had been allowed to choose one citizen capable of departing this world with a surprise no one saw coming, Richard would have been near the top of the ballot.

Maybe first.

Definitely top five.

Pastor Peterson smiled.

“I suppose every town gets a few originals.”

Fort Stockton had dozens.

But Richard occupied his own category.

The man who transformed a six-cylinder grocery-getter into a tire-smoking monster.

The man who installed three carburetors where one would do.

The man who viewed factory specifications as opening suggestions.

The man who somehow managed to leave both mechanics and medical students equally astonished.

Outside, the sun climbed higher.

Inside, coffee cups emptied.

The morning moved on.

Eventually Trixie stood up and gathered her purse.

She looked around the table.

Looked at the folded newspaper.

Looked at the memory of Richard Rendon.

Then she smiled.

“You know something?”

“What?”

She headed toward the door.

“They named him wrong.”

Everybody looked up.

“What do you mean?”

Trixie opened the door.

Sunlight poured across the café floor.

She grinned.

“His name should’ve been Three Richards, not just Richard.”

For a moment there was silence.

Then even Pastor Peterson laughed.

And somewhere, if Fort Stockton’s collective theology and sense of humor happened to be correct, Richard Rendon probably laughed too.

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